


Sweet Creature

by VoidVesper



Category: One Direction (Band), The Muppets - All Media Types
Genre: Bestiality, Body Image, F/M, Factory Farming, Fashion & Couture, Maybe this is not actually bestiality but I'm just putting it out there, Nipple Play, Nipples, Older Woman/Younger Man, Pigs, Supernumary Nipples, Tattoos, Where Meat Comes From, better safe than sorry, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28555329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidVesper/pseuds/VoidVesper
Summary: Requested by WolfMother666, who wanted a fic that mentioned Harry's extra nipples . . . which got me thinking about who else probably has them.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Miss Piggy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Sweet Creature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WolfMother666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfMother666/gifts).



_Vogue_ calls, _moi_ listens. It’s the _sooooeeeee pig pig pig_ of high fashion, the call she’s still vulnerable to. _We’d like to do a spring spread_ , the assistant editor gushes over the phone, after an appropriately fawning round of flattery for moi’s face and figure and indescribable _je ne sais quoi. I hate to even ask if you’d be willing to share the page_ , the editor cringes, _but have you heard of Harry Styles?_

And this is how she finds herself bundled against a window of his warm flesh, where the taffeta Gucci gown splits its zipper artfully and lets his tattooed swallows fly free. She’s in Prada, an oil slick of a feather boa sliding off her shoulders. “Put your shoulder into him, Piggy,” the photographer waves, and she does, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t mind. Someone used to being touched, welcome to it. 

“Harry, put your arm around her waist.” That’s when she stiffens. It’s just a reflex, one she’s trained herself out of. The mask of poise unclenches her tension but he’s already felt it. He says nothing, but the concern in his eyes is real.

He doesn’t drop his hand, though.

He nuzzles his face into her ear and whispers as the camera sparks in a spasm of flashes. The photo seizes the genuine intimacy in his words but the words die nowhere except in the seashell of her ear.

_I have them, too._

He parts the cold teeth of the zipper just slightly. There they are, sensuous pimple dots, distant flower buds for his solar plexus butterfly to light upon.

Even Kermit never saw them. So many excuses - low boudoir light, camisoles, _take me from behind, frog_. But she had them. Fourteen nipples, just like her weary, sharp-toothed mother. The look of them, raw, piglet-knawed, filthy. That’s why she took pains to bind them, every day. The elevator button dots of them down her torso reminded her of the stench, that ammonia gloom that meant Iowa, slop, a pork chop destiny. Her mother and brothers and sister ended their small ignorant lives dismembered in cellophane. It was glamour that saved her, that word that means both beauty and illusion. 

A plastic surgeon fixed the identifying notches the farmers snipped out of her ears at birth. A corset could take care of the rest. She could have the extra nipples removed. But the scars would be tremendous. And what’s worse: the scars you can see, or the scars you can’t?

She looked up. Nothing but kindness in his eyes.

How old was he? She’d been a star for over two decades before he was even out of diapers. Not that older women scared him. So she’d heard. And a pescetarian, too. No bacon. _And certainly doesn’t eat flies_ , she shuddered. So strange that the latter fact would comfort her more than the former.

He felt the shudder. “Could we have a moment?” That voice like drawn butter. “I can feel her shiver, I don’t want her to be chilled.”

Without knowing how she’s in his trailer.

“Let me see,” he says in that velvet sandalwood voice. She shakes her head. This is where a karate chop usually suffices, cows weaker men, lets them know who’s the boss so no one, _NO ONE_ , can ever see how or where or how deeply she hurts.

It’s his kindness that cows her instead. She doesn’t move as his fingers deftly undo the button at the base of the mock-human cleavage she presents to the world. His fingers find the edge of the spandex corset next. The velcro ripping off feels like the world tearing in half. Her twelve other breasts bounce out with a sigh, set free, her hourglass figure porcine for the first time to a man’s eyes.

He says nothing but runs his thumbs up their rows. She basks in the light of a gaze without judgement, feels the corset of her own self-reproach melt away.

She peels off the lavender gloves she wears to hide how her fingernails are black and ridged in hooved ways no manicure can fix. He doesn’t flinch to see them flick at his own nipples, all four of them, standard and supernumary, and the sensation of each makes his mouth part in degrees. A mouth that’s soon on her, deep against her tongue, her neck, in wide flat laves against the nipples she no longer hates.


End file.
